


All The World's A Stage, And All The Men Merely Role Players

by numberthescars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Porn, Roleplay, Virgin Sherlock, only not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numberthescars/pseuds/numberthescars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honestly, the way John's acting, one would think Sherlock was some blushing vir...<i>oh.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	All The World's A Stage, And All The Men Merely Role Players

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at smut, ever. Originally posted [on the meme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=114430871#t114430871), but vastly, vastly improved with help from my fantastic beta, percygranger. 
> 
> Also, if you are in any way related to me, please, for the love of my sanity, STOP READING NOW.
> 
> Psst...this is not the way real role-playing works! Definitely not okay to trick your partner. But this is porn, so take it with a grain of salt, okay?

 

 

“Mmmm…”

Sherlock hummed, leaning his head back against the sofa cushions as John deepened the kiss. He could feel John’s lips curve against his in a smile, clearly pleased at his reaction. John cupped Sherlock’s cheek with one hand, brushing a thumb over the cut-glass cheekbones and twisting his fingers in the detective’s hair. Sherlock opened his mouth, and soon enough the kiss had moved from slow and sweet to a reckless pace of hot wet tongues and teeth and panting, mingled breaths. John’s hand left his cheek and trailed slowly down Sherlock’s neck to his collar, pausing just over his heart.

This was it, Sherlock thought. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

“Hmm,” John murmured, breaking the kiss and smiling up at Sherlock with sleepy bedroom eyes. He leaned forward and gave Sherlock another gentle peck on the lips, almost a thank-you for their earlier snog. “I’ll be right back,” he said, getting up and heading towards the toilet.

 _Fuck,_ thought Sherlock.

 

*

 

The problem was not that John didn’t like Sherlock, or that he was uncomfortable with his sexuality. Sherlock’s initial assumption—that John was straight—had been disproven rather spectacularly when they ran into an enthusiastic ex-partner whilst investigating an insurance scam several months ago. The revelation of John’s not-so-secret bisexuality (“I _did_ say it’s all fine, didn’t I?”) had been welcome news to Sherlock. It had been a long time since he’d had sex, and an even longer time since he’d wanted it.

This did not mean, however, that Sherlock was patient. Just because he had waited all that time for someone worth a shag didn’t mean that he wanted to _keep waiting_. And John hardly seemed like the type for delayed gratification; one look at his private DVD collection had told Sherlock all he ever needed to know about _that_.

So John’s strange reluctance to move beyond the snogging-on-the-couch stage was puzzling and, frankly, annoying. It had taken weeks to get even that far; for a while, Sherlock was sure they would be stuck at the cuddling and hand-holding phase for the rest of their lives.

Sherlock heard the toilet flush overhead, and the door creaked open. He turned his head to watch as John wobbled down the stairs. Uneven gait: check. Sluggish reflexes: check. Lack of coordination: check. Obviously, he had just climaxed. It was so bloody frustrating.

“John.”

“Mmhmm?” John moved languidly towards the sofa, smoothing his rumpled shirt back into his trousers. “What is it? Want a cuppa?”

“No.” Sherlock leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You just masturbated. In the toilet.”

John’s head jerked up and he flushed a deep scarlet. “Uh…well, I…”

“That makes the sixth time that you’ve stimulated yourself immediately after having intimate contact with me, not including that time at the Met.” Sherlock cocked his head to one side. “I am forced to assume there is a connection.”

John rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, looking excruciatingly embarrassed. “Yeah. Well. I like you.”

Sherlock regarded him steadily. “And therefore you feel the need to masturbate after kissing me.”

John swallowed. “I’m just…trying to let off steam. You know, since I’m more experienced, and—and I don’t want to push you out of your comfort zone, not until you’re ready to take that step.” He blushed again, and his pupils dilated slightly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. His “comfort zone”? What was John implying?

John’s hand twitched towards the kitchen. “You sure you don’t want tea? Because I’m going to make some anyway.”

“Very sure,” Sherlock muttered, watching as the older man shuffled into the kitchen. Very sure indeed.

 

*

 

Sherlock waited until the next day when John was safely out of the way at the clinic to do his research. Apparently, John was not alone in fixating on being his sexual partner’s “first time.” The Google search results were astonishing. “Virgin kink” resulted in billions of hits, the first several pages being mainly porn sites, but later featuring such edifying results as: VIRGIN 23, to TOP BIDDER baseline £700!!!! and Like a Virgin SEXXXY REMIX!

Sherlock bypassed most of the hard-core stuff, eventually finding his way to an online sex-help forum. “Nikki6799” had asked, “My boyfriend and I have been dating for a while but we haven’t had sex. i thought maybe he wasn’t that into me, but it finally came out that he thinks I’m a virgn and he wants my 1st time to be special! I think its really sweet and I’m happy BUT I’m not a virgin! what should I do??? help! xoxo nikki.”

Sherlock scrolled through the answers. “JJfoxystuff” thought that Nikki should dump the guy. “Maxbax45” thought she should come have sex with him. Sherlock snorted. Useless. He was about to close the tab, when his eye caught the final answer. “Why not give him what he wants? Sounds like he really cares about you and wants you to be happy. At the very least you’ll both have a good time and he won’t be any the wiser!” suggested “tempgrrl567.”

Sherlock stared at the answer for a while, mulling over the possibilities. Finally, he shut the browser and closed the laptop. He had to get ready.

 

*

 

John pushed door to the flat wearily. It had been a long day. The surgery had been full of people with summer colds and allergies. All he wanted was to collapse on the sofa with a cold beer and a curry. He trudged into the living room.

“The clinic was busy today,” Sherlock commented from where he lay sprawled on the sofa. His was lying with his feet tucked under the edges of his dressing gown and his hands in a prayer position under his chin. John found himself smiling unconsciously at the picture.

“Yes, it was. How did you know?”

Sherlock snorted softly. “Obvious. You’re an hour later than usual, and you didn’t stop to do the shopping. Anyone could have figured it out.”

John felt a sudden and inexplicable desire to kiss Sherlock. He crossed the room and leaned over the detective, pressing a brief kiss to his lips. Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheek and he sighed as John pulled away. “I-I—um,” Sherlock stuttered, and John was surprised to see a slight flush colouring his pale face.

“Are you alright?” he asked, alarmed. Unthinkingly, he put a hand to Sherlock’s forehead, checking for a temperature.

“I’m not sick.” Sherlock brushed John’s hand away impatiently. “I just…want more.” He looked up at John beseechingly.

“More?” John repeated, blinking down at him.

“Please,” Sherlock murmured, taking John’s hand in his own. He tugged at it lightly, as though he wanted John to come closer but was too embarrassed to ask. John moved forward obligingly and Sherlock sat up, so John was standing between his knees. He looked up at John through lowered lashes, lips parted with nerves. John could see the detective’s pulse hammering away in his exposed throat.

“John,” Sherlock began hoarsely, but whatever he was going to say was lost when John sealed his lips with another kiss. This one was rougher, needier. John plundered Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, licking and nipping at those full lips until they were slick and puffy. When he finally pulled away, Sherlock was breathing heavily and he looked dazed and slightly disheveled. And when John reached forward to smooth the rumpled collar of his dressing gown, and the detective blushed deeply and looked away.

“Alright?” John asked, and he was surprised to hear his own voice sounding so rough.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied hesitantly. “It’s…a lot.” He looked so vulnerable, John wanted nothing more than to kiss him again, but he held himself back.

“We can stop here,” he said, licking his lips. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. We’ll take it slow.”

“No!” Sherlock exclaimed, eyes widening. “No. I want to do more. I’ve waited a long time for this, and I don’t want to wait any longer. I just—” he paused, his forehead creasing slightly with worry. “I don’t know what to do,” he continued in a softer voice.

John swallowed thickly. “Well, first I think we should move this to a better location,” he said. Somehow, he managed to sound semi-coherent despite the raging hard-on pressing against his trousers. “Your first time should be in a real bed.”

 

*

 

It took some time to get up the stairs and into John’s room, partly because John couldn’t quite make up his mind where to go (Sherlock might feel more comfortable in his own bed…then again, they might not be _alone_ in Sherlock’s bed), but mostly because two people connected at the mouth do not make for the most smooth or coordinated movement. Finally, they collapsed on the bed in a messy pile of arms and legs and far, far too much clothing. But when John expressed this opinion of the situation, Sherlock fell silent.

“Are you nervous?” John asked gently, sitting back on the bed.

Sherlock bit his lip. “A bit,” he admitted, looking down at his hands. John leaned forward and placed his hand over Sherlock’s. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you feel good. If you’re not happy, we’ll stop right away. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded mutely. John patted his hand once again and leaned forward, pressing his lips to the underside of Sherlock’s chin. He mouthed along the edge of his jaw to his neck, tracing the moistened skin with a fingertip. Sherlock shivered and a soft moan escaped his lips. John continued until he reached the neck of Sherlock’s dressing gown.

“Okay?” he murmured against Sherlock’s skin.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. John slipped his fingers under the silky fabric and pulled it off the detective’s shoulders.

He’d seen Sherlock bare before, once, after a shower—he’d been standing at the sink shaving, a towel slung around his hips. John remembered thinking that he looked like a statue made of marble, or maybe porcelain: something hard and cold and perfect. But this was different. The white skin of the detective’s chest was flushed in blotchy pink patches and blessedly warm to the touch. John skimmed his palm over his chest and felt Sherlock’s nipples harden beneath it. “You’re sensitive,” he said.

“John, don’t tease,” Sherlock’s voice hitched a bit at end, as John trailed a finger over his left nipple. “ _Please,_ ” he added.

John caught his mouth again in another kiss as he dragged the dressing gown away from where it was bunched at Sherlock’s waist. Pulling back, he looked down.

“White cotton?” He giggled a little. “Do they have your name in them too?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “What’s wrong with them?” he complained. “They’re comfortable.”

“They’re fine,” John replied, reaching down to slide his thumb under the waistband of the pants in question. Sherlock tensed a bit. “Shhh,” he said, cupping the younger man’s cheek and looking into his eyes. “Calm down. This will feel good.”

Sherlock relaxed a bit, and John smiled, releasing his face. He began kissing his way down the detective’s torso, until he was kneeling between his legs. He mouthed the damp fabric, feeling a stab of pride that Sherlock was already hard and leaking for him. He sucked on the shaft, taking as much into his mouth as he could through Sherlock’s pants. Above him, Sherlock’s breaths were coming faster and he clenched the bed sheets tightly.

John sat back on his heels to peel back the wet cloth. Sherlock’s cock sprang free, flushed dark and beaded with pre-come. John barely hesitated before taking it into his mouth.

“Ah!”

Sherlock gasped and arched a bit. John put a steadying hand on his thigh and he quieted, panting slightly. As soon as Sherlock had settled, John began to suck and lick in earnest, trying to remember all the best blowjobs he had ever received. He rolled his tongue around the head, licking the slit and tasting salt and _Sherlock_. John felt himself flush at the thought, though the blood didn’t only rush to his face. He shifted, freeing a hand to unzip his own fly to relieve some of the pressure on his cock. He didn’t touch himself yet though. There would be time for that later.

He began to bob his head, rubbing the tip of Sherlock’s cock against the roof of his mouth. Sherlock gasped again at the added friction, though he didn’t move. Noticing Sherlock’s death grip on the sheets, John stopped long enough to say, “You can touch me, you know. Here.” He guided Sherlock’s hesitant hands to his head. Sherlock held him gingerly, as though afraid to harm him. “Don’t worry about hurting me,” John said, smiling up at him. “I like a bit of hair pulling.” Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

John returned to Sherlock’s cock, first running his hand over the now-slick shaft. Gripping the base, he sucked the head back into his mouth, taking in as much as he could. For the rest he used his hand, starting up a rhythm: pump, swirl, suck, pump, swirl, suck…

Soon enough, Sherlock was twitching and his grip on John’s hair tightened. The pain was good though; it sharpened John’s attention and distracted him from his own arousal. Christ, he would never forgive himself if he came in his pants now.

“John,” Sherlock said in a strangled voice. “John. I’m going to…”

In answer, John redoubled his efforts. Sherlock moaned and thrust forward, fucking John’s face. John’s eyes were tearing up from the struggle to suppress his gag reflex, but soon Sherlock was coming, hot and bitter down his throat.

Sherlock released him and slumped back on the bed, running a clumsy hand through John’s hair apologetically. “You didn’t come,” he mumbled.

John sat back on his heels, eyeing his detective greedily. Sherlock was completely naked, flushed and damp with sweat, his hair a wild halo of dark curls, pupils blown so wide his eyes were nearly black. His cock was still pink and semi-hard, even after his recent release. John began unbuttoning the collar of his own shirt.

“I have some ideas about that.”

 

*

 

John was glad they’d chosen his room. Having some kind of lubricant and condoms within arm’s reach meant less time spent away from Sherlock’s side, and he had the distinct impression that leaving Sherlock alone right now might be physically impossible for him.

He grabbed the lube from his bedside table and scooped some into his palm, allowing it to warm to body temperature. There was nothing more off-putting than cold lube up your arse—he knew from previous experience. Sherlock watched him warily from his place on the bed. John smiled at him.

“Might be more comfortable if you turn over,” he said, scooting closer, cupping the melting lube carefully in one hand.

Sherlock frowned. “But then I won’t be able to see you.”

John let out a self-conscious laugh. “Well, you won’t be missing much there,” he replied, glancing down at his own scarred torso.

Sherlock reached up, caressing the hardened knot of skin at John’s shoulder. John couldn’t feel it—the nerve endings were deadened by layers of scar tissue and damaged flesh—but the look on Sherlock’s face made him shiver. “You’re interesting,” Sherlock said, and to John it sounded like the best compliment in the world. “People look mostly the same naked, but you’re different.” Sherlock traced another scar, this one older, long and thin, extending from John’s collarbone nearly to his navel. John’s cock throbbed at the nearness of the contact. “I can learn so many things from your body, just by looking. Skiing accident,” the detective continued, tapping the scar. “And this one—shrapnel, you were nearly hit by a mine.”

“Have I ever told you you’re amazing?” John breathed, and Sherlock raised his eyes to John’s again, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Once or twice,” he said.

John pulled him in for a kiss, then broke away to reach for one of the pillows. Sherlock lifted his hips, allowing John to shove the pillow beneath him. “Comfy?” John said.

Sherlock grunted. “If I were any more comfortable, I’d be unconscious.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” John smiled, settling between the younger man’s knees. He pushed legs wider apart, and Sherlock made a funny little noise, as though nervous. “Shh,” John said, stroking his thigh. He moved his hand first along Sherlock’s half-erect cock, giving it a few firm strokes to set him at ease. Only then did he allow his fingers to travel lower, fondling Sherlock’s balls, trailing along his perineum, to the tight pink rosette below.

Sherlock tensed the moment John’s slippery fingers brushed his arsehole, nearly wincing. John pulled back immediately. “No,” Sherlock said, before John could ask the inevitable question. “I’m alright, keep going.”

John moved with glacial slowness, tenderly caressing the tense hole until the muscles softened. He paused to warm some more lube in his palm, then carefully pressed one finger inside. It was hot and tight, the texture silky smooth. John pushed deeper, feeling around for the prostate. He brushed his finger over the lump and Sherlock cried out, arching into the feeling. “Fuck!”

“Prostate,” John explained, grinning. He removed the finger only to replace it with two. Sherlock hissed at the stretch, but gasped once John pressed his prostrate. When John tried to pull away, the detective pushed down, trying to fuck himself on John’s fingers. “Steady on there,” John said, pressing several fingers back in. Sherlock was panting slightly now, the flush rising again from his chest. His cock was fully erect, curving up irresistibly against his belly. John leaned forward, his fingers still tucked deep inside, and licked a long stripe up Sherlock’s cock.

“Ah!” Sherlock bucked against him. “Fuck, stop John, or I’ll come again.”

John wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait either. He pulled his fingers from Sherlock’s hole—the detective whined a bit at the sudden loss—and reached for the condom he’d tossed on the sheets nearby. His hands were slick, and kept slipping on the plastic packet. Sherlock raised his head, frowning.

“No point in a condom,” he grunted once he saw what was taking John so long. “I came in your mouth.”

“You’ll thank me later,” John said. “The cleanup’s easier this way.” Finally the condom tore open, and he slid it on, positioning himself. “You’re sure about this?” he asked one last time, though he didn’t want to think about what he’d do if the answer was no.

Sherlock fixed him with an aggravated look, though it was somewhat undermined by his current debauched state. “God, yes,” he said.

John pushed himself in, the tip of his cockhead just breaching the opening. Sherlock threw his head back with a grunt of pain—despite John’s careful preparation, the stretch was still uncomfortable. His body tensed, clamping down on John. “Sorry,” he said, gripping handfuls of the bed sheets in tight fists.

“It’s fine,” John replied soothingly, stamping down on his own discomfort. He stroked Sherlock’s stomach and chest, moving upwards to run his fingers through the detective’s sweaty hair. “Take as much time as you need,” he whispered, planting a kiss on his lips. Sherlock swallowed and nodded, looking up at him with trust.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

John pushed in again, this time pressing past the initial resistance until he was halfway sheathed in Sherlock.

“Wait! Wait,” Sherlock moaned.

John stopped, biting down hard on his tongue to distract himself from the excruciating need to _thrust_. “Sherlock,” he managed to gasp. “You need to relax.”

“Yeah.” Sherlock was quivering beneath him, his bare flanks tense and streaked with sweat.

“Take a deep breath and let it out. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpered. He sucked in a long breath, and the movement caused by the expansion of the younger man’s lungs was nearly enough to make John scream. Then Sherlock exhaled, and his muscles relaxed around John’s cock just enough that he could slide forward until he was fully seated inside. John gave a choked-off gasp. It was tight, and almost unbearably hot. He tried not to think about the source of that heat, tried not to think _at all_ , in fact, or he knew this would be over all too fast.

“I’m going to move,” he said. “Is that—”

“Move, John,” Sherlock groaned. “Fuck, _move._ ”

John gritted his teeth and forced himself to move gradually, pulling out more than halfway then pushing slowly back in. Sherlock hissed as John dragged against his prostate. John repeated the movement, forcing his muscles to obey though his hormones were screaming at him to thrust—harder, faster, _deeper._

Sherlock grabbed John’s forearms, dragging him forward with surprising strength until John was pressed up against his body, balls-deep and achingly hard. Sherlock’s cock, caught between them, was erect and dripping pre-come on his stomach. “Not enough,” he panted in John’s ear.

“What’s not enough?” John asked, not moving. He slipped between their joined bodies and took Sherlock’s length in hand, squeezing the base.

Sherlock moaned. “ _John_.”

“What’s not enough?” John repeated. He knew it was almost cruel to ask with Sherlock panting into his shoulder, practically begging for it; but he couldn’t suppress the desire to reaffirm how much Sherlock wanted this, wanted _him_. The detective’s cold, impassive exterior had shattered into this wild, desperate person, made of flesh and blood and needs just like any other—and yet, not like any other. Sherlock was Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. John stroked the younger man’s cock once, eliciting another groan. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“F-fuck me,” Sherlock whispered, his voice breaking slightly over the first word. “Oh god, _fuck me_ , John.”

John didn’t need any more encouragement. He jerked his hips in fast, shallow thrusts, gritting his teeth as his weak arm began to protest the weight placed on it. Sherlock groaned beneath him. “More,” he said. “ _Harder._ ”

John sat up straighter to give himself more leverage and to take some of the weight off his left shoulder. He gripped Sherlock’s legs behind the knees, bending the detective nearly in half so he could fuck him more deeply. The heat was even more intense, almost as though Sherlock’s body was sucking John in deeper. John bit his lower lip to keep himself focused. This was about Sherlock’s gratification—he could wait. Sherlock moaned and ground himself down on John’s cock. John bit down, tasting blood in his mouth. He multiplied his efforts, balls slapping shamelessly against Sherlock’s arse with each thrust. Every push jolted the detective’s entire body.

John could tell that he was hitting Sherlock’s prostate every time at this angle. He sped up, hammering hard against the swollen gland, stubbornly refusing to touch his flatmate’s now-leaking cock. Dragging his eyes upward, he saw that Sherlock’s mouth was cracked open in an unending moan of pleasure, head thrown back and eyes closed. Saliva had pooled in his lower jaw and a little dribbled down his chin unheeded. John leaned down on a forward thrust to lick it up.

“John.” Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “I’m…soon—”

“Come on,” John gasped, not pausing for a moment. “Come for me.”

Sherlock shuddered and stiffened beneath him, then his face slackened as he came, spilling hot and wet across both their chests. John continued to thrust, his body sliding through the sticky mess between them, but his movements were quickly losing coordination as he approached his own climax. Finally he thrust one more time, arching up with a cry, and released. He collapsed against Sherlock, breathless and exhausted.

 

*

 

The moment after orgasm always felt too long to Sherlock, as though the seconds and minutes had inexplicably stretched or multiplied during the intervening time. He knew this was impossible, but the knowledge didn’t stop it from feeling real—and that bothered him. Luckily, he was blessed with a short refractory period, so he had always managed to keep post-coital rituals to the barest minimum with his previous partners. No cuddling, no kissing. Certainly no pillow talk. But then again, pre-coital rituals had played only a nominal role in his prior encounters as well. He supposed that in this, as in all things, John Watson would be the exception to the rule.

Sherlock rotated his head to the side, too lazy to turn over to face his partner. John was spread out beside him on the bed, naked, sweaty, covered in come, and grinning stupidly at the ceiling. They were barely touching—only their hands and lower legs were in contact. Sherlock felt an unfamiliar stab of loneliness at the realization.

John turned to Sherlock, catching his eye. His smile widened. “Hello,” he said. To Sherlock, it sounded like the most brilliant comment in the world. What was wrong with him? He must have made a strange face, because John giggled. “You look like you just got the stuffing shagged out of you,” he chuckled. “Thoroughly debauched.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re not the picture of innocence yourself,” he commented dryly.

“Hmmm,” John hummed, his expression softening to something more series as his eyes drifting away from Sherlock’s. “I knew, you know. Or, well. I figured it out.”

“What?”

“That you’re not a virgin,” John said, and Sherlock twitched.

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

John looked back at Sherlock, eyebrow raised. “I spend nearly every waking moment with you, Sherlock. I know these things.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “When?”

John sighed. “Almost immediately. I—well, I’ve seen you put on an act before. It was pretty obvious.”

Sherlock’s thoughts whirled. He didn’t regret following the advice he’d found online. The mind-blowing (as some hormone-addled part of his brain insisted on calling it) sex had been more than worth it. But he found himself wishing that the forum had included suggestions on what to do if one’s partner discovered the deception. He liked John. He was useful at a crime scene, capable on a case, and he made a damn good cup of tea. He didn’t mind doing the shopping or cleaning the loo or the thumbs in the freezer drawer, at least not as much as Sherlock’s last flatmate had. He was even on friendly terms with the skull, and Sherlock’s skull was a good judge of character. Yes, John was a Good Man, one-of-a-kind, really. The type of man who did not take well to deception, no matter how noble the cause. And even Sherlock could tell his “cause” fell a bit short of noble.

He opened his mouth to say some version of that, (or perhaps just, “make me some tea”) but John interrupted.

“Thanks.”

Sherlock blinked. Of all the potential responses he could have imagined, gratitude was not one of them. “For what?”

John shifted, turning over on his side to regard Sherlock seriously. “For playing along, I guess. Most people would probably think it’s weird, but—you made our ‘first time’ special for me.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, which really meant nothing at all, but he couldn’t come up with a better answer. The internet had failed him again.

John smiled his adorable crooked smile. “Right. Well. I’d appreciate a little advance notice next time you’re planning to role-play, okay?”

Sherlock rolled over, close enough to smell John: salt and sweat and sex. He closed his eyes. “So, there will be a next time.” He made it a statement, but it was a question. Great, now John was messing with his grammar, too.

“Of course.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open just in time to catch John’s smug smirk. “I’ve had my eye on that riding crop for a while.”

 

 


End file.
